


An Idiot's Handbook to Refurbishing Computers, Or, The Case of William Scott

by FaceMadeOfPorcelain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I know it's been done, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5816080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceMadeOfPorcelain/pseuds/FaceMadeOfPorcelain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John isn't extremely pleased when Sherlock returns.  Dramatic as ever, Sherlock leaves him in peace in his own unique way.  Even though he doesn't want to see him, John hunts him down.  It turns out to be a different kind of chase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Idiot's Handbook to Refurbishing Computers, Or, The Case of William Scott

**Author's Note:**

> Um hi. This is my first real try at a fanfiction. I'm not quite sure of the end game here, but I know pretty much what i want to write. I had a lot of help from my friend finnemoreshusband who got me into fanfiction in the first place. This story is actually based on an idea I borrowed from him. Honest feedback much appreciated!

I had wanted to propose to Mary tonight. We weren't together long, but I thought she was it. The One. I didn't know if she'd caught on to my plan and thought it too hasty or if she simply wasn't interested anymore. But here I sat, alone, at this too-fancy restaurant acting as if I still expected her to show. She said we needed a break and still I waited. Ring in my pocket, palms sweating.

I investigated my menu. Had to order something now I'd been there almost half an hour.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a waiter approach from the direction of the kitchen. One skill I learned from a dead man: how to spot someone coming toward you in a crowd of people going in all different directions.

I stared harder at my menu. Hadn't even really read the words I saw.

Instead of standing at my side and bending to get my order, the man took the seat across from me. Folded his hands. Crossed his legs; I could tell by the shift of the tablecloth.

Pulling the menu closer to my face I mumbled, “Sorry, I haven't quite made up my mind yet.”

“It's alright, sir,” a thick French accent replied. “Do take your time. There are so many promising options, after all.”

“Yes, well -” I set the menu down, ready just to order his first recommendation. I froze in my position. Wide-eyed, breath held. Knuckles white around the rims of the menu.

“Good evening.” A lip-curling grin spread across the man's face.

I stared at him. I felt as though my whole body were twitching with emotion. Anger, relief, confusion. But I was completely still.

He wiped his moustache off with the bleach-white cloth napkin setting in front of him. “Dome on, John, you really aren't so dense. You must have something to say.”

My eyes hardened, lips tight. “You prick.”

A roll of the eyes. “That's the best you can do?”

“I knew it.” I stood to leave. Quickly slung my coat over my arms. “I knew it was just another dramatic act.”

“John, please sit…”

“No. You let me grieve for two bloody years, Sherlock.”

“Shh.”

“No! No way! Two years, Sherlock. I thought you were dead.”

“Well clearly I'm not. Surely even you can deduce that.”

I lunged at him.

 

* * *

 

After we were (both) thrown out of the restaurant (and banned indefinitely) I tried walking home.

He followed me.

I couldn't see him but I knew he was there. I walked about the city, hoping he would give up chase. Realise I wasn't interested and go back to whatever murder-infested hole he must have crawled out of.

After an hour I lost track of him and headed to my place above a coffee shop. My flat was considerably generic compared to the price of their coffee.

I should have known he'd be waiting for me. Leaning against the little side door that led to my stairs.

“How'd you know, then? Deduce where I live by the scuffs on my shoes or something?”

He shook his head. “Mycroft’s file.”

“Ah. Good to know he cared enough to keep tabs. I'll have to send him a card.”

“John…”

“Sherlock, stop it. You don't get to die, to make me watch you jump off a building, and then sit across from me two years later like nothing happened. You don't. Go away.”

“Fine.” He tightened his scarf. “I'll be back tomorrow. We should talk.”

“Sherlock!”

“I understand you're upset but could you _please_ lower your voice? I don't want just anyone knowing I'm alive.”

“Oh, it's still a secret, is it?”

“Of course it's still a secret.”

“Right. And who else did you see before finally coming to me, hm? Obviously you saw Mycroft.”

“My brother brought me back to London, of course I was forced to see him.”

“And?”

“...Molly.”

“Oh, wonderful. Happy little reunions. So they knew, then? All along they knew and watched me sit around and sulk and cry like an idiot.” I put my hand up when he opened his mouth. “Actually I don't want to know the details. Just go.”

“You don't understand.”

“Right, because I'm an idiot. Why won't you just leave me alone?”

“Yes, as I said I will return -”

“Don't you get it? You died. You're still dead.”

A long moment of silence. I shoved past him to stick my key in the lock.

“I see. As I said, this is still a secret. I'll ask you not to mention it to anyone.”

“I don't care enough to.”

“Safe travels, Dr. Watson.”

He turned and very quietly disappeared. He didn't say goodbye. But I was glad not having to hear it again.


End file.
